I had a medallion of Saint Kevin, after whom I am named, for a while. My mom and brother brought it back from Saint Patrick’s cathedral in New York City when I was a tween. It was about the size of a nickel and I wore it on a let’s-call-it-silver chain. My namesake was supposedly born in 498 and lived to be 120 years old, and like me he spent a period of his life in the wilderness, bathing in lakes, and communing with animals.

I can’t say that the medal was particularly meaningful to me in a religious way, but I’m pretty sure it’s the only jewelry I ever wore. It was meaningful because it was a present from my family.  It was significant enough that I gave it to a girlfriend to wear my senior year in high school, because I did not own a school ring. It meant enough that I got it back when we broke up. It was meaningful enough that I wore it again afterwards.

My saint and I share stories from our life that are shrouded in legend. The saint is said to have aroused such passion in a local young maiden that she went to his hermit cave to seduce him. He beat her with thistle branches and she devoted herself to God.  I got so drunk visiting my brother in Newport, Rhode Island during the summer of 1989, that I attempted to fight a bouncer and was rescued from a certain beating by Jim’s girlfriend. 

While praying in the woods, the saint had a blackbird land on his hand, and build a nest. Rather than disturb the bird, he stayed in prayer until the eggs hatched, being fed berries by forest animals. I was so drunk when we got back to the apartment that I apparently  threw up in the toilet and shit in the tub, and then switched places for a repeat show. The next day, we went out for a sumptuous seafood meal which I could not eat. 

When Saint Kevin lost his prayer-book in an icy mountain lake, an otter appeared, swam to the bottom of the lake and retrieved it, undamaged in any way. When I ripped my St. Kevin’s medal from my sweaty, inebriated neck, there was no magical animal to redeem it.